Questions we might think to ask

The skyline is etched

with invented life:

See how wires feed each house.

Are we not alive with connection?

And fences, don't they define spaces

of gathering?

Can we not greet each other once again

in shared delight?

Do not the seasons come, and go

and return again

in familiar patterns?

Don't they reach that singing place

within our heart?

What then is this new

and nagging ache,

this tremble at the brink

of forfeiture?

Do we only imagine

some thing has changed,

that winter speaks more slowly,

drawing in its breath

and holding it to a quizzing point

before each long exhale?

Has spring extended its gestation

a month,

or two?

Do we only imagine

summer's impatience

to push lilac and daffodil

into premature senescence?

Why is earth so thirsty

it opens fissures in its skin

to draw in morning dew?

When we walked this field

last harvest time,

did our feet not sink into the soil?

Did wheat not whisper to us

on each night's wind?

Are the numinous memories

of sun, of stars,

of the night-light of moon

which comforted us

when we feared the dark,

just passing dreams?

Have we broken

our contract of usufruct?